


Wounds

by lumbeam



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, North Yankton, Undoubtedly inaccurate depictions of bullet wound care, michael is probably depicted as being too nice oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Trevor gets hit with a stray bullet, Michael has to do what he can to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow, it's been a while since my last fic! I've been writing a handful of prompts and forgetting about them as soon as I'm done. I'm finally getting back into finishing what I started, so watch this space :)

Michael makes a sharp right around the corner, hitting a patch of ice. As he tries not to overcorrect his turn, Trevor flings himself back into the car. “Jesus, M, you could have fucking warned me!”  
  
“Well _sorry_ T, but you’re not the one driving away from every two bit cop in this piece of shit town!” Michael yells back, his nails digging into the steering wheel. He’s up to 70/mph now on a country road. Cops are still chasing after him, although they’re trailing behind due to the unplowed road. Michael is thanking his fucking stars that he managed to buy snow tires.

“M, losing these fuckers sometime soon would be fuckin’ nice!” Trevor grits out in a strained voice. He is sitting backwards on the passenger’s seat, his torso hanging partially out the window. His left arm is tucked inside his coat, like some sort of Canadian Napoleon. The amount of bullets in his pistol are dwindling down quicker than he wants to admit to Michael.  
  
“Okay okay okay, _FUCK_!” Michael presses even further on the gas. 90/mph. Hopefully the roads are stranded up ahead.  
  
By some miracle, they manage to escape the cops’ grasp. The patrol cars either spin out or give up as Michael and Trevor reach the limits of the nearby town. Michael whoops and hollers, shaking Trevor’s shoulder in excitement. Trevor grunts and turns around in his seat, making sure to take a look at the gym bag full of cash in the backseat.

Their motel is a few miles away, out in the middle of nowhere.

Only cows witness their return to their hideout. Michael hides their car in the abandoned barn nearby.  
  
As the two walk back to the motel, dragging a tarp over their tire tracks, Michael looks over at Trevor. His arm is still in his coat. “You okay?” Michael asks, his warm breath making a cloud in the cold.  
  
“M’fine. Just cold.”  
  
“T, you’re Canadian. Ain’t no such thing as a cold Canadian.”  
  
“Fuck you, M.” Trevor mumbles, his words having no bite to them.  
  
When they arrive in their motel, Michael goes over to his bed and opens up the gym bag full of cash. “Fuckin’ A…” he whispers to himself.  
  
Trevor doesn’t go over to look at the money. He’s still standing in front of his bed, struggling to pull his arm out of his coat. Michael looks over at him. “T?” He asks, his smile fading from his face.  
  
Then he sees Trevor’s blood covered left hand. That same hand unzips Trevor’s coat and Trevor emits a pained groan. As his heavy coat slinks off of his slender body, Michael can see his dirty white thermal is soaked in blood.  
  
“ _Fuck, T!_ ” Michael hurries over to him and catches him. “What happened?”  
  
“Shot,” Trevor says, the color draining from his face. He’s simultaneously cold and hot.  
  
“Fuck fuck _fuck_ _\--when_? Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”  
  
Trevor shrugs in his arms.  
  
“Shit, T. Don’t pass out. Stay with me.” He lightly slaps Trevor’s sullen cheek. Trevor’s eyes open up a bit more.  
  
Michael, cursing to himself, drags Trevor to the bathroom. He puts him in the bathtub with his legs sticking out. Then he tugs off Trevor’s heavy snow boots and puts him completely in the tub.  


“Okay, let’s see how bad it is. Let’s see what the fine upstanding cops of Singleton did to you.” Michael says with a slight smirk, trying to do anything to lighten the situation. It doesn’t work for either of them, and his smirk disappears as soon as he lifts up Trevor’s shirt.  
  
The gunshot wound is right alongside his ribcage; his torso is so bloody, he can’t see where the wound starts and ends.  


“I can--okay. I can do this.” Michael says, his voice shaking. He turns on the shower, making the water icy cold to have Trevor stay with him, even if it means pissing him off.  
  
Trevor yelps, which is the most volume M has gotten out of him in the past hour. “ _FUCK_ ! _M--goddamnit--”_  
  
Michael ignores him. He grabs Trevor’s thermal collar and tears it down the side. “I’ll get ya a new one with the score money.” He doesn’t even know why he says it; he’s just trying to do anything to keep T among the living.  
With his shirt off and the cold water running down his body and clearing the wound, Michael can see the damage. It’s a deep two inch long gash on his right side.  
  
He shuts off the shower and grabs one of the complementary towels. He presses it on the wound, and Trevor inhales sharply. “Sorry, T--just, hold the towel there--”

“Why are you acting like you know all this?” Trevor asks, his head still resting on the rim of the tub. His voice is weak.  
  
“Well, cause I _do_? My ma was a nurse--”  
  
“Your _ma_ dropped out of nursing school when your piece of shit dad sacked up with her, M--”  
  
“Well she was fuckin’ in school long enough to know basic wound care, okay?” Michael spits back. “She had to fix my cuts and sores a few times…”  
  
Trevor sits up in the tub, his arm pressing the towel tightly by his side. “Nice to know her schooling helped her bank robbing son.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, she’s real proud.” Michael says sarcastically, lifting up Trevor’s arm that was keeping the towel against his wound. Blood is soaking through. “Oh, shit--” Michael sighs out worriedly.  
  
Trevor glances down at his side. “What’s the next course of action, _doc_ ?”  
  
“I might have to stitch this up.”  
  
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? It’s not like you’ve ever stitched anything up in your life! I bet you failed out of fucking home economics, or whatever dumb ‘domestic’ shit you had to take--”  
  
“Trevor, _please_ shut the fuck up. Give me a second.” Michael gets up and leaves the room. He comes back a minute or two later with a safety pin, some dental floss, and a bottle of vodka.  
  
“Doctor Macgyver, I presume.” Trevor says, showing his teeth. He’s still pale, but not on the verge of passing out. “Can’t say I'm too _thrilled_ about this idea.”  
  
Michael uses his Swiss army knife to cut the safety pin in half. “I’m the only hope you got, T, unless you want to risk going to the hospital and getting ID’d.” He ties some of the floss around the end of the pin, and--  
  
“What’s the vodka for?” Trevor asks as Michael removes the towel from his side.  
  
“Oh _right_ .” Michael says. He opens the bottle, takes a quick swig, and douses it on Trevor’s bullet wound.  
  
“ _GOD-FUCKING-DAMNIT_ !” Trevor yells, slamming his fist into the bathroom tiling, cracking it. “ _You sack of shit--_ ”  
  
Michael, amused, dips the needle into the bottle. “Gotta keep it disinfected, T.” He says nonchalantly.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, sure…” Trevor mumbles. “Just start with your sewing.”  
  
Michael has to force the needle through Trevor’s skin, and Trevor tries to push away from Michael and the needle as far as he can. By the third stitch, Trevor’s hand is gripping Michael’s strong shoulder. Trevor tries not to look down at the stitching, so instead he just stares at Michael. His brow is furrowed, similar to how he looks when they’re planning a heist or when he has to talk to his dad when everything is going to hell. The expression doesn’t placate Trevor, so he just turns his head away, his fingers still digging into Michael’s shoulder.

After seemingly an eternity, Michael says,“T, I'm all done.” Trevor looks down at his side. The stitching isn’t pretty, but the skin is closed and not bunched up. It’ll do. “Not bad for someone who got a C minus in home ec, right?”  
  
“Doctor Michael, you should have your fuckin license revoked.” Trevor says, trying not to smile. All of a sudden, his soaked clothes chill him to the bone. “Are we done here? Can I get out? I'm freezing my cock off--”  
  
“One sec--” Michael says, taking one of the washcloths and his ACE bandage that he used to use for football. He wraps the bandage around Trevor’s side, putting the washcloth over his stitching job. “ _Now_ you’re good.”  
  
“Good, now I can finally get out of these fuckin’ clothes--” Trevor says, standing up way too quickly. His vision goes black, but he feels Michael catch him before he injures himself some more.

 

“ _Woahh_ , T, easy there.” Michael says with a laugh. “How ‘bout I help you some more?”  
  
Trevor’s vision returns, and now he’s lying on the motel bed, staring at the ceiling. Michael tugs the remaining wet clothes off of Trevor’s body.  
  
“ _Augh_ , what’s that--that line about taking someone out to dinner first?” Trevor asks, his mind drawing a blank.  
  
“Hell if I know, Trev.” Michael mutters, finding some boxers for Trevor.  
  
“Then again, it ain’t the first time you’ve seen me naked.” Trevor says, smiling up at the ceiling. He would sit up if it didn’t hurt so _goddamn_ bad.  
  
“Ain’t even the first one _hundred_ times I’ve seen ya naked.” Michael slides a dry pair of boxers around Trevor’s waist. He goes to his bag to grab a tattered football sweater for Trevor. He tugs it over his shoulders and Trevor puts his arms into the sleeves. Michael doesn’t bother tugging it down for fear of brushing against his injury.

Michael props Trevor up on a couple of pillows, so he can see more than just the stained drop ceiling tiles.  
  
“Are you _nurse_ Michael now?” Trevor asks, watching Michael picking up the discarded bloody clothes.  
  
Michael scoffs. “I’m just helping a friend out. A friend, mind you, that nearly died in my arms just a couple of hours ago.”  
  
“Didn’t realized you cared so much.” Trevor mused.  
  
“T, are--are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Michael asked, dropping Trevor’s clothes into a laundry bag. He goes and sits next to Trevor. “I don’t _know_ what I would have done if you bled out, or--or if you died while I was driving--or--”  
  
“Yeah, cause then you’d have to find a place to dump my body--”  
  
“ _No,_ don’t fuckin’ do that. You know I care about you.” Michael grabs Trevor’s hand and rests his forehead against his. “And I don’t wanna lose you. Ever.”  
  
Trevor pushes his head forward, placing his lips against Michael’s. The kiss is everything that Trevor cannot convey and put into words, for fear that the good thing he has going for himself will be gone in an instant. It is a “thank you, I love you, and I don’t want to lose you” all in one succinct moment.  
  
When the kiss is done, the two of them stare into their eyes for a while. Michael’s blue eyes search Trevor’s for a possibility that he might say something meaningful, but all that comes out of Trevor’s mouth is: “So how about some of that vodka?”  
  
Michael rolls his eyes and smiles as he heads off to get the bottle.

 


End file.
